


Sea to sea, storm to storm, tide to tide.

by RoseMeister



Category: Warcraft - All Media Types, World of Warcraft
Genre: Gen, No arthas, Tidesage Jaina au, character death tag is for a character that dies in canon, effectively a coming of age story, no 1st 2nd or 3rd war, version 2.0 of this fic (its actually online)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-25
Updated: 2019-07-25
Packaged: 2020-07-19 13:38:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,502
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19974976
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RoseMeister/pseuds/RoseMeister
Summary: “We spoke to your tutors before we came here.” He says, cutting off whatever Daelin was preparing to say, and ignoring the sharp look Daelin shoots his way. “They agreed to let you go, if you wanted too. It’s only for a week, and you haven’t been out sailing in so long.”Daelin looks about to speak again, but Derek cuts him off once more. “It’s your choice.”Jaina reaches out to touch the ship once more, and tries to imagine it cutting through the waves, fierce and proud, a ship with no equal. And she wants it. She wants to stand at its helm, to feel the rocking of a ship under her feet. And she hasn’t been sailing in so, so long.“Can I bring my books with me?” Jaina asks, and Derek cannot bite back his laughter.Even Daelin smiles, if only a bit. “As many as you like.”





	Sea to sea, storm to storm, tide to tide.

**Author's Note:**

> yes this is a re-upload don't worry about it

Her father's ship is beautiful. It's in the classic Kul Tiran style, decorated like the ships of old, those great war galleys that were ruled the waves centuries ago. But beneath the grandeur is a ship without peer. The decorations are old, but the design is new, and Jaina is half convinced it will sail faster than the wind when they finally let it slip into the water.

She touches its side gently, like it is a living beast, marvels at it. "Has it been blessed yet?" She asks.

Derek stands just to the side, and he shakes his head slightly. He’s wearing his naval uniform today, clean and new, and it sits stiff on his shoulders, barely moving when he does. But it fits him well, and makes him look a good deal older than he actually is. When Jaina first saw him today, her first instinct had been to go towards stiff formality, to bow at the waist and offer up all the polite words that had been ingrained in her as a child.

But Derek had ruined the impression within a second, breaking out into a wide smile and collecting her in a bear hug so strong Jaina was half convinced he would break at least two of her bones.

Now he just shakes his head softly, a fond smile on his lips. “We might be able to get it blessed once you stop fondling it. It’s just a ship, Jaina.”

“Tell me you’re not impressed with it.”

He tilts his head upwards, washing his eyes over the ornaments, analysing the sleek lines of her bow. Then he shrugs.

S’alright.” He says.

Jaina hits him. Just lightly, little more than a tap on his arm, just enough to let him know what she thinks of that reply. “She’s beautiful.”

“Alright,” Derek says finally, “I suppose she is.” Then he stops, flashes her a wicked grin. “Should I be letting father know how deep your passion goes? Can you imagine how expensive a wedding dress would be for a ship this size?”

Jaina hits him again, in his stomach, and Derek overplays the injury, leans over at the waist and acts like he’s dying, trying to muster some sympathy in Jaina. But she is too busy shaking her hand out. She had to hit him right on the metal buttons. Somehow Jaina is convinced that that’s Derek’s fault too.

From behind them, Jaina hears the unmistakable sound of heavy boots on wood, and she straightens immediately in the futile hope that their play-fighting went unnoticed. Beside her, Derek abandons his terrible acting and stands up too, brushing down his uniform, his stance stiffer than the fabric itself.

“Derek.” She hears her father say. “What did I tell you, just this morning?”

They both turn around, guilty. Daelin is wearing his uniform too, only his has been well worn, its former grandeur worn away by wind and waves. But there’s a charm to its age, and each section fits like a second skin. Even the worn patches, the faded colours, only speak to a life spent on the sea, an experience no gold could buy.

“Did I, or did I not tell you to be nice to your sister?” Daelin says, but there is no blade to his voice, only a deep weariness.

“You did.” Derek admits.

“Then listen to me next time.” He turns to Jaina now, and his beard crinkles around his smile as he opens his arms up, and lets every trace of the commanding leader fall away. “It’s been too long.” He says, and when Jaina abandons Derek to greet him, Daelin squeezes her so hard that Jaina is _definitely_ sure one of her ribs has broken.

“How have you been?” He asks, not yet letting her go. “Do they treat you well? I had Lord Stormsong swear to me that you’d be-”

“I’m good.” Jaina tells him, slowly extracting herself from him. As pleasant as it is to see her father again, she still values having a measure of personal space. “I’m really good. The monks had me skip up a few levels since I last saw you, and Brother Pike let me borrow some of the old scrolls from their library, and you wouldn’t believe-”

Jaina cuts herself off, finally aware of how close she came to rambling on, and stops herself from continuing before she has both Daelin and Derek falling asleep on their feet. The books she had borrowed were fascinating, even if Jaina herself struggled to get through some of the heavier more abstract topics, but she remembers all too well the time she tried to explain something she’d read to one of the other students only to find the poor woman asleep in her chair long before she finished talking.

“Good.” Daelin says. “But have you read the manuals I sent you? The ones on-”

“ _Navigation in The Eastern Seas_? Or _Advanced Manoeuvres in Adverse Weather_? There were others though. I read them all, but the names I can’t quite remember…”

Behind her, Derek laughs, only laughing harder when she turns and shoots him a glare. He stops dead when Daelin shakes his head, and instead turns around and pretends to be admiring the ship once more. Jaina glares at him for a moment more, remembering how he used to tease her for always having a book in hand, or for being drawn towards the oldest, dustiest books she could get her hands on.

Because maybe it was _true_ , but that doesn’t mean she liked to hear it.

“I’ll make sure to send you more.” Daelin says. Then he pauses, runs his hand over his beard in thought, watching her so closely that Jaina has to fight the urge to squirm. “You could always pick them out for yourself. You’re old enough now to read most of my collection.”

“I can’t leave my training.”

“Not even for a couple of weeks?” Daelin presses. “You can leave any time you want to.”

“I want to stay here.” Jaina says, and her father’s expression darkens. Just for a moment. Brief enough that she thinks she imagined it, or saw too deep into some small twitch of expression. But she remembers it still, and the memory of it is enough to settle something heavy in her gut.

“Your education is important to you. As it should be.” He says quietly. Then he shifts again, and gestures towards the new ship. “What do you think of her? You’ve always had a fine eye for ships.”

“I’ve never seen a ship like her.” Jaina says. “Strong, but fast. I think any sailor would cut off a hand to get the right to sail on her.”

“They’d sail better if they kept their hands.” Daelin says. But the praise has energised him, and he casts an eye over the ship that is filled with as much pride as if he were looking at one of his children. “I’m sure you’d like to see her sail too.”

Jaina tenses again, already preparing to argue for the right to stay and continue her studies. And she knows how stubborn her father can be, and she hates arguing with him, even on the small things. But Derek saves her.

“We spoke to your tutors before we came here.” He says, cutting off whatever Daelin was preparing to say and ignoring the sharp look Daelin shoots his way. “They agreed to let you go, if you wanted too. It’s only for a week, and you haven’t been out sailing in so long.”

Daelin looks about to speak again, but Derek cuts him off once more. “It’s your choice.”

Jaina reaches out to touch the ship once more, and tries to imagine it cutting through the waves, fierce and proud, a ship with no equal. And she wants it. She wants to stand at its helm, to feel the rocking of a ship under her feet. And she hasn’t been sailing in so, so long.

“Can I bring my books with me?” Jaina asks, and Derek cannot bite back his laughter.

Even Daelin smiles, if only a bit. “As many as you like.”

* * *

Derek has the helm when Jaina steps out on deck once more, and he hails her with a voice loud enough to make the boards shake. Father always said the best tool a captain has is their voice, Jaina thinks, and she walks as fast as she can to where Derek stands, if nothing else just to stop him from bursting the eardrums of the crew once more.

“This is the first time I’ve seen you above deck since we boarded.” He says. His voice has dropped now, no longer the thunderous shout from before, but into the quieter tones she remembers. Even looking at him he seems different, and standing this far away from the easy view of the other crew, or her father, he no longer stands so tall, and he holds the wheel lightly, almost as if it is an afterthought. Their father would have stood much taller in his place, no matter who was watching. But with Daelin out of sight, Derek has let responsibility and expectation slip off his shoulders, as easily as removing a cloak.

“Father was showing me the route.” Jaina tells him. Daelin had been more than willing to show her all his materials when she had asked, and while explaining their route should not have swallowed up much time at all, her never ending questions, combined with how eager her father had been to discuss even the driest of minutiae to her, had kept her below deck for a good handful of hours.

And while Jaina would have been content to remain longer still, she is glad to have escaped into the sunlight, to be able to taste the salt in the air. At the monastery she had been spent all her days thinking about the ocean and yet it was never the same.

“What do you love more, old books or the ocean?” Derek teases. “If only you could marry a library, don’t you think?” And while Jaina has never had a propensity towards violence, every moment spent in her brother’s company makes her consider abandoning every one of her values, and she wants to hit him. Again.

“That still isn’t funny.” Jaina tells him, restraining herself. Restless, she fiddles with the fabric of her robes, rubbing the rough material between her fingers. Between her robes and Derek’s stiff uniform, she wonders who is chained by the most uncomfortable clothing. Right now, she hopes it is Derek.

“Actually.” Derek says, and even before he is finished Jaina is already contemplating whether to let go of her scruples, and throw him overboard. She considers it for a moment, but her brother, while slighter than most Kul Tiran sailors, is still heavier than she could manage to lift easily. And their ship is a touch too high for a wave to knock him off his feet, even if Jaina tried to control it. Still. The thought is tempting.

“I remember why I called you up here.” He says, and indicates the wheel he is still holding with one hand. “Do you want a turn?”

The words have barely left his mouth before she has grabbed the wheel. Like the rest of the ship, the wheel is newly carved, and feels strange in her hands. Almost every other ship she has had the chance to steer had been old, broken in decades ago. This one is freshly forged, but no less responsive to her touch.

It is only minutes later that she hesitates. “What if father-” she starts, but Derek shakes his head.

“Don’t crash her, and he won’t mind.” Derek glances at her again, and for a second all the humour in his eyes dries up. “He would likely be happier to see you steering it than I, in truth.”

“But you’re a captain now.”

“Aye. And I can steer my own ship, most days. You, not so often.”

There’s a strange undercurrent to his words, but Jaina doesn’t know the source of it. Whatever it is, she can’t quite pin down enough to ask a question on, and even if she did Derek would likely elude it by beginning to tease her again.

Derek keeps a steady eye on her steering, but he lets her maintain control for hours, until the sun starts to dip down in the horizon and Jaina’s hands are starting to feel stiff. Even then, he doesn’t steal it from her, and contents himself with prodding her with questions on the monastery, on each thing she has studied, and he does an admirable job of not looking bored when Jaina slips and starts lecturing him on the more technical aspects of her learning. He opens a flask he keeps on his belt, and asks her to control the water within, and while the trick was something she learnt within the first month of her training, Jaina still performs it for him, has the water dance in the air while Derek watches with wide eyes.

Later, the navigator comes to relieve Derek of steering, but she doesn’t seem surprised at all to find Jaina at the helm instead. And while Daelin stays locked up in his quarters all day, Derek brings her below deck to eat with the crew, and turns a blind eye when the cook sneaks her a ration of rum that burns her throat when she tries to drink it, worse than seawater.

Then, hours later, when Jaina makes her excuses and tries to sneak above deck once more to see the stars, he follows her, and stays quiet until she has leant against the railing at the front of their ship, near where the figurehead juts out above the water. It’s dark here, with most of the sailors below deck, and the only light kept near the wheel itself, but the stars are magnificent, and almost worth enduring what new teasing Derek will come up with.

“I should have said this before.” Derek starts. His voice has dropped low, and the humour has gone with it. Jaina can’t see the expression on his face, but she almost doesn’t need to. The dark says it all. “I only… I didn’t want to ruin your day. It’s been so long, and I know how much today must mean to you, and I didn’t… I’m sorry.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Sorry. You’re the one that’s good with words.” Derek sighs out, long and drawn, before starting again. “Father’s going to ask you something, when this trip is over. And he’s going to be stubborn about it, as you know he can be. But it’s a hard choice, and I didn’t want you to be hit with it seconds before needing to give an answer.”

If he had said this earlier, she might have countered with a joke, or some biting words. But now, in the dark, watched only by the stars, Jaina makes herself hold her tongue.

“He wants you to abandon your training with the Tidesages. There’s a new round of officers who are going to be inducted soon, and he wants you to be one of them.”

She tries to stare at him, but sees only a dark shadow. “Father told me I could chose my own path. He said that he was-”

“That he was proud of you. I know. I was there. But you stayed longer than anyone expected, and now you’re within a year of graduating entirely.”

“So, all the books he sent me, about sailing and the like…” Jaina is glad it is dark now, even more so that clouds have passed over the moon, left her face hidden from sight.

“He wanted you to decide to come back by yourself.” There’s a moment’s pause. “I’m sorry, Jaina.”

“Promise me.” Jaina says, her tone ice cold. “Promise me this is true.”

“I swear.”

* * *

Jaina rises with the dawn, can feel the sunrise light up the waves before she has even taken a step above deck. She takes one of her books with her, the heaviest she can find, and reads it on deck in the cool morning air. But the words don’t sink into her mind, and she finds herself dwelling on Derek’s words, over and over and over.

Eventually, she makes herself put her book and its thin distractions aside, and instead she kneels, starts a prayer to the Tidemother.

When she had been young, Jaina had been convinced she could talk to the ocean, and had wasted many an hour away whispering her secrets to it, and pretending she heard answers back. Now, she knows that her whispers return answers, but those whispers she gets back are hard to decipher, confusing things that twist in her mind, flow and wash away like water, until she is half-convinced that she heard no answer at all. But the habit is comforting, and after yesterday feels like a defiance.

What would the Tidemother want her to do, she wonders. And does Jaina even have a choice at all, or is she simply being strung between two strong wills, pretending that she ever truly had a choice at all?

And what Jaina herself wants is even harder to answer. She thought she knew. Yesterday she was so certain. Now she hesitates, and begs the seas to rise and answer her, to give her an answer with such certainty that she no longer has to doubt her own path.

It was easy for Derek, she thinks. He always wanted to be a captain, always wanted a ship of his own to helm. But now, thinking about what he had said, she wonders just how much choice he was ever given. He was the eldest, their father’s heir, and if Daelin was stubborn when it came to Jaina, there is no counting how stubborn he would be about Derek’s future.

Will I make this choice just so that it is my choice alone, she thinks.

She hears someone approach her, but for once she just ignores them, and watches the last lingering flames of the sunrise instead, setting the waves on fire. The morning is quiet, and there are few sailors on deck yet, and Jaina isn’t quite ready to face Derek yet.

But it isn’t Derek that settles beside her, but someone taller, with streaks of grey running through his beard. Jaina tenses, and keeps her eyes glued to the distant horizon.

“When you were younger,” Daelin says, gently enough that his voice doesn’t shatter the soft morning, “and I had lost track of you, I’d always find you somewhere like this. Near the ocean, with a book in hand.” He stops, and out of the corner of her eyes she sees his run one hand over the smooth wooden railing, as if looking for a fault. But he finds none. “You wouldn’t believe how many books you ruined. I have to believe the Tidemother got an entire library just from your gifts.”

“I don’t drop them anymore.” Jaina tells him. But she still doesn’t look his way.

“For that I’m glad. Otherwise half of Kul Tiras’ fortunes would be spent replacing them.”

Jaina wonders quietly if he plans on asking her to choose now, with no one but the ocean as witness. She tries to imagine it, whether it would be a gentle question, or more like a command. She doesn’t know. There’s so much she doesn’t know. And while most mysteries are exciting, the answers a pleasure to hunt down and discover, this one she’d almost be content to put off forever.

“Your mother misses you.” Daelin says. “She made me and Derek swear on our own graves that we would make sure you were alright.” His tone is fond, and remains soft. “Tandred won’t say it, but he misses you too. They’ll be glad to know you’re well.”

“Greet them for me too, when you see them.” She keeps her voice soft, and tries not to let anything show in it.

“Aye. That I will.”

Jaina finally turns to face him. Sometimes she wonders who exactly her father is. The fierce admiral who always gets his way, or the kind man he becomes when it’s just them. Are they the same man, or is one a mask for the other? One more thing she doesn’t know.

“Someone told me,” Daelin starts, and Jaina’s heart freezes in place, “that Derek let you steer yesterday.” He smiles, and the soft morning light bends around his shoulders, and it is hard to remember the hard man he can become, the storms that rise when someone defies him. Instead, all that is left is a sea-worn sailor, the father who had patiently taught her how to tie knots, the man she knew when she was younger.

“He did.” Jaina says carefully.

“I have the helm this morning.” Daelin says, as subtle as cannon fire. “And I’m not sure if you had your fill yesterday, but would you like to…?”

“Yes.” Jaina says before he can finish, and Daelin laughs.

* * *

Derek joins them at the helm by late morning, and Jaina relinquishes the wheel in order to grab one of the steaming mugs of tea he brought with him. The heat is almost too much, but the day is cold, and she is grateful for it. She tries to lift it close to her face, where the wind has chilled her to the bone, but the heat stays trapped in her hands, and the rest of her stays encased in ice.

Her robes are rough but thick, and are usually more than enough to keep her warm. But the wind has been on her strong all morning, and she rose early. Her father had never sunk to complaints however, and Jaina never wanted to broach the subject with him, or ask to escape below deck where some of the cold might leave her bones.

And while the cold never usually bothers her, this one sinks in deep, and settles something unspoken to lie heavy against her heart. She takes her tea to her lips too soon, and has to stop herself from cursing in front of her father when it burns her tongue. It helps, but only a little.

“Seen anything?” Derek asks.

“Not yet.” Daelin says. “But we’ll have pulled in closer to shore by this evening, so that should be more interesting.”

Their conversation drifts on, and while Jaina isn’t lost when they start using some of the more technical nautical terms, she still loses her concentration, and stares out instead over the ocean. Close to their ship, the waves split into white-capped fragments, but the further out to sea she looks, the calmer it is. It steals her attention away from even the too-hot mug in her hands, seduces her until her mind is awash with it, the crash of waves, the taste of salt, the endless, sinking blue.

And something buzzes at the back of her mind, whispers and murmurs, with a voice like water, fluid and endless and beyond human understanding.

“Storm’s coming.” Jaina says, the words slipping out of her mouth without thought. It’s only when Derek jolts beside her that she realises that she spoke at all. Even then, the words fit strange in her mind as she weighs them, tries to think through what exactly made her so convinced.

“Wrong season for storms.” Her father says, “And no sign of it on any of our instruments.”

There’s a strength to Daelin, an unbroken assurance that makes Jaina regret having spoken at all. Where Jaina might hesitate, wait a moment more to dwell on uncertain thoughts, he charges through, chooses a path and lets nothing dissuade him from it. She considers arguing with him, but here at sea his word is law, and his stubborn nature bows to no one.

Still. He’s not wrong. But Jaina can feel something twist in her gut, some unspoken and instinctual knowledge that has her staring out over the waves, watching the distance, wondering what exactly has her so convinced that the weather is about to turn, and badly.

The words have formed on her lips, moments from being spoken, but she swallows them back down before she has the chance.

She wishes she had her books, that she could search through them for some proof to back her up, so she didn’t just look like the foolish child making guesses without any real knowledge. Or that she could just trust that her father was right, to trust on everything he has learnt from all his years at sea.

She steps away from the wheel, and then further still, until she feels she has the room and the space to think properly without her father always watching her, watching and analysing and judging.

Derek steps away with her, takes her by the arm and leads her to the side of the ship. “Why did you say that?” he asks, and he watching her too, not harsh but still all too intense.

“I felt it.” Jaina tells him. “I don’t know. Father- The Lord Admiral is right. There is no storm.”

“Where would the storm come from?” Derek presses.

“The north-east.” Jaina says, instinctually, then folds her arms and sinks back in on herself when she realises what she said.

“Promise me this isn’t a joke.” Derek insists. He is holding her arm still, and with every second that passes his grip tightens. His face seems calm, but deceptively so, still like the sea before a storm hits.

Jaina doesn’t want to answer. The wind is still cold, and it bites at every exposed part of her skin, freezes what little of her isn’t already frozen. And she wants it to bite further in, to seal her heart to ice and free her from this, from Daelin’s harsh words and her brother’s desperate grip.

She keeps her eyes fixed to the wooden deck, half-terrified to look out to sea again, to have that same murmuring voice twist in her mind, to haunt her with words she can only just understand.

“Please.” Derek says. “I need to know.”

And Jaina can hear the answer. She can hear it in the creak of the ship as it moves, the snap of their flags from high above as the wind plays with them, threatens to steal them entirely. She can hear it in the crash of waves against their ship, can feel it in her bones, just as certain as if the words had been whispered in her ear.

“There’s a storm coming.” She says with certainty. “I swear.” Derek watches her carefully for a second longer, but he nods, and releases her at last.

“Lord Admiral.” He calls out, loud and clear, his voice ringing across the deck loud enough for several sailors to stop their work and look over. “We should find a bay to pull into. I’ll find the navigator, and we can-”

“No.” Daelin says. He keeps his voice low, but there is an undercurrent of steel in it, cold and sharp.

“Listen, Jaina just told me-”

Daelin doesn’t even bother to look over his shoulder. “The answer is no.”

“She’s a Tidesage, she would know if there was a storm.” Derek insists.

Jaina doesn’t want to speak, to draw Daelin’s ire to her as well. But she tries, anyway, only to have Daelin cut her off.

Daelin only glances over his shoulder, but his glare cuts bone-deep. This time, he doesn’t speak, not with his words. But she hears every thought still, just as clear as the whisper in the wind.

She doesn’t argue any more. And beside her, even Derek has gone quiet, but she can see the unhidden tension in his shoulders, can see him clench his fists so hard his knuckles turn as white as ice.

 _Sea to sea, storm to storm, tide to tide_ , Jaina prays.

* * *

The cook is handing her bread when she feels the first few drops of rain fall. She can’t see it, not from below deck, nor can she hear it over the sounds of sailors talking. But she can feel the impact of each one, and when she closes her eyes, she can see it and her father too, getting soaked drop by drop and yet never once loosening his grip on the wheel.

The cook says something, but she can’t hear him, can barely feel the food in her hands. But she can hear the soft sound of rain on water, can feel the sea calling to her like a lover, sweet but desperate.

Jaina forces the dry bread down as fast as she can, and by the time she slips away with Derek on her heels she can hear the storm singing to her, no longer a distant melody but a gale force that threatens to take her off her feet as soon as she emerges above. But there is a unity to the sea and the wind, and storms are but the twisted song of both. Jaina plants her feet, and grabs Derek before he too can be lost.

“Father!” she shouts, fighting against the wind. She cannot even hear her voice, so she tries again, commanding the wind to carry her voice rather than steal it. “Turn to starboard!”

If he replies she cannot hear, nor can she see his reproachful glare, the stubborn tilt of his jaw. But she can feel the ship move under her feet, and it is only what command she has of the wind that keeps her feet in place. She thanks the Tidemother, again and again, burning her name onto her lips as she and Derek make their way to the helm, to where Daelin stands maintaining his balance by holding on to the wheel itself.

“You two should be downstairs!” he roars. The storm is newly born, but it has already soaked him to the bone.

Jaina ignores him, and tells Derek to relieve him of steering. Derek obeys, but Daelin doesn’t, not at first, not until Derek matches his iron will with a glare of his own, trading steel for steel.

Daelin staggers back in the wind and Jaina catches him, tells the wind to root him too. And it does, even if it fights her with every moment, begs her to free it. She can hear it whispering in her ears, not quite the murmurs of the Tidemother but something else, just as dark.

The storm talks to her, creeps into her mind and whispers, asks her to break its chains, to let it rise as tall as it was born to be. To funnel her strength into it, to have the Tidemother adopt it as one of her own, to destroy not only this ship but many, a storm unending.

It whispers, it promises and it begs, and it is only when Daelin shakes her that Jaina returns to the deck, to the first crack of thunder in the sky.

Sailors have begun to pour out from below, each one running to help in whatever way they can. But they are aimless, directionless, and Jaina cannot focus on both the storm and making them hear her.

But she has Derek.

“Be my voice.” She tells him, and he repeats every instruction she gives him with a voice like thunder, and their crew regain control of their ship. Daelin runs down to join them, and even he obeys.

The whispers infect her mind, slipping into every thought, every plan, every flash of emotion. But it is all just noise, and Jaina lets each one wash away with the rain, and just this once, she forgets to think. She reaches out instead, to the furious wind, the lashing rain, the waves that try so valiantly to conquer their resisting ship. And she bends each one to herself, never breaking it, or trying to enslave their power for her own, but working with them. She finds the gaps between waves, and pushes the ship through them. She lets the rain fall as heavily is it wants, but makes each drop drain off the side, add their strength to the ocean itself.

The wind is harder. It whips and struggles, trying to fight against her with every step, no matter how she approaches it. It changes direction, again, and again, and again, and she can hear it try and curse her without words. But Jaina doesn’t break, and she imagines Daelin’s unbroken steel as she commands the wind once more. And this time, it listens.

Her eyes can’t see the shore, but the waves know where it is, and she can see where they are with more clarity than she ever could with mortal eyes alone. She can see the shoreline, it too battered by winds, and she can see a line of rocks beyond it. Danger never abates, but she knows where they are. And she is not just Jaina anymore, but something more.

Here is her answer, spoken without words. This is who the Tidemother wants her to be, one with the sea, the storm, and the tides. And she wants it too, wants to feel like this longer, to be more than herself for as long as she lives. To be more salt and storm than human.

Derek shouts the commands she tells him, but Jaina barely hears her own words. And Daelin listens to her too, his steel turning to wire, unbroken but bent to her, just this once.

Jaina has it, unconscious but strong, a way to guide them through. She can see their path carved like a scar in her mind.

Then she hears her father shout, and as the mast snaps her concentration snaps too and she is born again to a ship in chaos. She tries to reach out again, to regain control, to push them that final distance towards safety. But her grip only lasts a second, only just long enough for the storm to whisper in her ears again, to taunt her with just which sailor it stole.

Derek is fighting with the wheel as she runs to the side of the ship, and tries to look out over the waters below. Without her control, the storm lashes out at her too, tries to tear at her robes, her hair, and she can still hear its unspoken voice whispering, laughing, mocking.

Jaina climbs the railing.

She sees Derek turn, just for a moment, never taking a hand off the wheel. She can see the white of his eyes, the horror in his face, can hear him shout at her to stop. But he never leaves his post and he can do nothing to stop her from diving into the furious sea.

The sea is ice cold. It bites at her, tries to sink ice into her veins or tear her apart with each of its crashing waves. But Jaina has the Tidemother’s name boiling on her tongue, searing into her every thought, and when she commands the sea it obeys, and sinks her deep within itself. Deeper and deeper, until what little light there was is all gone and Jaina has no sight left. But the ocean whispers to her, gives up what knowledge it knows, and when Jaina commands it to bring her to her father it pushes her deeper, and deeper, and deeper.

She finds him at the bottom, crushed beneath the broken mast. The mast she removes with a wave, but the wave that steals it lifts her father too, and fills his lungs with ever more water. But she never stops long enough to panic, and she pauses only to grab him, her thoughts focused on pushing them to shore.

 _Tidemother_ , she prays in the blind deep, _keep him safe. Don’t take him yet. Please._

The sea spits her out on a rocky shore, and Jaina cuts her hand on a jagged piece of shell as she hauls Daelin up and above the waves. She doesn’t bother to check for a heartbeat, and instead pushes her hands down sharply on his chest, again and again, drawing water to flood out of him with every heartbeat. Jaina tilts his head back, forces air into his now empty lungs, and then returns to her work.

The seawater that had come so close to drowning him lingers in his clothes, his hair, in the drenched sand around him, and in every spare moment that she has, she blesses it, asks it to heal what it tried so hard to steal away from her. It glows like moonlight, and sinks into Daelin’s skin.

Finally, Daelin coughs, and draws life back into himself. Jaina collapses against his chest, and while his breathing is slow and laboured, it is there, and so too is his heartbeat, steady and strong.

 _Thank you_ , she tells the Tidemother.

But as she looks back out over the still wild ocean, she tries to draw her praise back into herself, watching from a distance as their ship melts and breaks like surf against the shore, raking its hull over the very rocks she tried to steer them away from. From here, it looks like nothing more than a toy boat, a toddler’s toy to be tossed aside once broken.

Jaina leaves her father on that cold shore, and dives back into the sea.

* * *

Some she finds floating, clinging to pieces of scrap. Others she finds deep below. Jaina drags each one onto the shore, lingering just long enough to make sure they still live. And then she gives herself back into the waves. Again, and again, until there is more salt in her veins than blood.

She finds the cook hauling other sailors onto a large section of broken hull, the navigator half-way swum to shore. And she finds more, midshipmen and cabin boys, men and women both. Some she has to wrestle the ocean for, others the waves seem to offer her as gifts.

Jaina doesn’t know how much time has passed when she finds herself on the shore again, dragging one last sailor ashore. The woman is taken from her as soon as she touches the sand, lifted away by those sailors still conscious and brought closer to the great driftwood bonfire someone has lit while Jaina was at sea.

She stands on unsteady legs, finds her balance on dry land hard to find. The sand betrays her, slips under her feet, and Jaina turns to abandon it too and slip back into the cold ocean. But a hand catches her shoulder, stops her in place. _Derek_ , she thinks, only to find the old cook holding her in place.

“No more, girl.” He tells her. “You’ve done what you can.”

“I’m not done.” She says, but she can’t manage to throw off his hand and it roots her steady as ever.

“You can barely stand. Come back with me. The fire will give you strength.”

“No.” She insists. “I haven’t found them all.”

“You dive back in there, and you won’t be coming back. You’re done.”

She tries to argue, to break away from his grip, but by now their argument has attracted attention, and she finds herself surrounded by sailors, each one forming a wall between her and the sea. The navigator takes her other shoulder, and together she and the cook pull Jaina away from the water.

She fights them, every step. But the cold has drained her, and step by step, they win.

* * *

The fire melts most of the ice from her bones, and much of the water from her skin, and Jaina is lulled to sleep.

It is only hours later that she wakes in the dead of night to a calm sea, its fury too having been lulled away like the Tidemother has brushed a comforting hand down it, smoothing down angry waves and stealing away the wind. The moon reigns above, bright and full, finding no competition in the fire, now burnt down to only embers.

But there is a name burning on Jaina’s lips, and without the other sailors to stop her, she staggers back down to the surf and dives in.

But she can’t find him.

* * *

When she had dragged him from the sea, her father had been cold. Ice cold. Colder than snow, colder than even a dead man should be. But she had dragged him out, pressed air back into his lungs, and his heart had started to beat once more.

Now, he is hotter than she can bear to touch, and he lies still, covered in every spare jacket the crew could find. Several of his ribs had been broken, one of the crew had told her, and the water got in his lungs and stuck there, leaving a cough that the fever has not yet burnt out.

Jaina holds his hand, her clothes still wet.

She can’t say the words. But Daelin already knows, and when he places his other hand over hers, the heat nearly burns her skin.

“Jaina.” He says, when they have enough privacy to speak. “I need to tell you something.”

“I already know.” She says, all her grace gone. “Derek told me.”

He pauses, and holds her hand just that touch tighter. “Of course he did.”

“The answer is no.”

“It’s not a question. Not anymore.”

"Please, father." She begs. "I don't want this. I want to go back to Stormsong, to study, to learn. Don't make me do this.”

His face softens, like snow in the mid-day sun, and for a second she thinks she has him convinced, that he will set aside this madness, let her don her robes once more. But his hand still burns fever-hot, and his other hand trembles as he removes his anchor from around his neck, weighs it in his left hand.

"I know." He says, and the hardness returns in the steel of his eyes, the hard line of his jaw. "But you must. See it as the Tidemother calling you to a different path, if you must. But you will not return to the monastery. Not as a student, and not as a Sister. You're coming home. With me."

"Father please." She tries, once more, tries to match steel for steel. But she can hear her voice waver, and even bedridden her father has a presence she cannot hope to match.

"No." He says. "Promise me you'll put this foolishness out of mind. The sea has taken Derek, and now his duty falls to you."

Jaina had thought she knew what she wanted. Had thought she would at least have the opportunity to choose, even if she has always felt torn between worlds, each hungry for her attention. Now the sea has stolen her choice away too. And Jaina isn’t Derek, tall and strong, bearing the weight of his duty easily. Here she barely feels like herself, and not just some stranger who washed up on the shore wearing her skin.

Daelin is watching her, and despite it all his gaze is still so heavy, so full of expectation. And despite it all, she falters under his unending stare, the crushing weight of his expectations.

All she wanted was a choice. No matter what her decision was.

"Father." She starts. Steady and strong. "I won't do this for you. Nor will I do it for duty."

"Jaina." Daelin warns, his tone harsh and cracking, like a whip, or a crack of thunder echoing overhead. But she ignores him, meets his gaze.

"Let me finish." She says. It's the harshest tone she has ever taken with him. Any other day and she would have hesitated, or argued in a softer tone. Not today.

"But I will do it for Derek's sake." Jaina says. "I swear."

It breaks the hard steel of Daelin’s expression. And while her father is usually fierce and stubborn, as wilful as the ocean itself, she'd almost prefer that proud, unbroken man to the one in front of her now. His skin is blanched and pale, and with all his glares and arguments gone, there is little to disguise just how weak he is.

Is it the sea or the loss that has stolen so much of his strength, she wonders. Jaina doesn't want to know. She banishes the thought as soon as it arrives, so too the question of just how pale she herself looks.

"Derek would be proud of you." Daelin says. His harsh tone is gone, so too the tension in his shoulders, the intensity of his gaze. Now her father just looks so mournful that Jaina is afraid he will shed tears in front of her.

Daelin drops the anchor in her palm at last, and his fingers shake as the chain leaves them.

"I swear." Jaina repeats, as strong as she can.

And Jaina's fingers curl over the anchor, and seal it to her skin.


End file.
